


To Safety

by roktavor



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: ? - Freeform, Action, Blood, Carrying, Cliffhanger, Crying, Feelings, Gen, Hugs, M/M, Mild Gore, Peril, Pre-Canon, Protectiveness, Secret Crush, Serious Injuries, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-10-06 18:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17349980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roktavor/pseuds/roktavor
Summary: On an early mission together, Knuckle and Shoot run into some trouble.Knuckle is determined to get them both out of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Second fill for my Bad Things Happen Bingo card, this time for: I Will Only Slow You Down.
> 
> I recently got into HxH, and I love these two so much. I absolutely do have some fluff in the works for them, too, but, for now:

The first thing Shoot becomes aware of is the jostling. His mind is fogged, his eyelids are heavy, but he’s moving somehow – carried along roughly by something. Some _one_ , hopefully. If some _thing_ has him he’s probably in trouble, in which case he should –

Pain hits him, then, and he sucks in air on a strangled gasp. His leg is the worst, radiating hurt through the rest of him with every throb, but there’s also an all-over soreness that makes it hard to assess exact damage.

From somewhere around him (above him?) among all the jostling and the distant _whoosh_ of air as he moves, he hears a familiar grunt. He’s aware enough now to feel arms cradling him, and to separate the way they flex to secure him from the overall bumpiness of their path. A _person_ has him, then. Someone he recognizes. That’s good.

Opening his eyes, he still doesn’t see anything. He tries not to panic and blinks them a few times, attempting to shake the dredges of unconsciousness from his system. It works, although it takes him a while to be able to tell, considering the lighting wherever they are is awfully dim.

Once his eyes adjust, he catches sight of a strong jaw, lots of tanned skin, and thick foliage blurring past in the background. His brain makes the connection for him before he can start to think about it.

“Kn’ckle…?” It’s just a whisper, which apparently means his voice isn’t really working, either.

“Shoot!”

Their bumpy journey gets even rougher at that, and Shoot clings to whatever he’s holding onto with his right hand to keep from falling. His whole body tenses, sending a fresh wave of stinging pain from his thigh. Hissing through his teeth, Shoot tries to relax his muscles and trust that he won’t be dropped. It doesn’t work.

“S-sorry!” Knuckle says. “I tripped.”

Shoot grunts, not trusting his voice to be capable of more than that at the moment. Now that he knows that it’s Knuckle who’s carrying him, he recognizes the rhythm of his running and adjusts himself as best he can to which steps the pain will flare up on. The uneven terrain makes it difficult, but having even something small to focus on helps bring Shoot’s mind back online.

‘Whatever he’s holding onto with his right hand’ turns out to be Knuckle, too, of course. Shoot has his arm wrapped over broad (and _bare_ – he doesn’t have time to be mortified by this, but he is nonetheless) shoulders, his fingers digging into skin and muscle as he holds himself in place. Knuckle’s got him in a princess carry, of all things – one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back.

…The position really isn’t doing Shoot’s embarrassment any favors, although with all his aches and pains, it’s easier not to mind.

They skid to a sudden stop, and Knuckle’s hold around him tightens so much that Shoot becomes acutely aware of several new bruises – as well as the fact that his legs are thoroughly slicked with what must be blood.

That would explain the throbbing in his thigh.

As Knuckle stands still, chest heaving to catch his breath, Shoot lifts his head to look down at himself, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He thinks he might be sick, and feels the blood drain from his face, probably going to join the rest of it gushing out of a deep gash on his thigh. He sees shredded skin, torn muscle, and something white peeking through that he has a sinking feeling is _bone_.

Slightly above the garish wound, something black is wrapped and tied tight around his leg – a tourniquet, his mind supplies. Trickles of red escape regardless, but he imagines it’d be much worse without that. As it is, his clothes are soaked, and even his sandals are stained.

He’s aware of tacky, drying blood elsewhere on his person, and finds himself counting off other cuts as he wiggles around in Knuckle’s easing hold. Panic is threatening to overwhelm him, especially as he can’t remember what happened to get him in this state in the first place. The more injuries he takes stock of, the worse they all hurt. Especially his right thigh, pinned between his left and Knuckle’s torso, leaking blood over the both of them, and –

“Sorry,” Knuckle pants, “sorry, we’ll get moving soon. I’ll get you outta here, I swear.”

Shoot has no idea what he means. Why is Knuckle panting, anyway? His endurance is top notch; ordinarily he can run for days without getting even slightly winded.

The key word there is ‘ordinarily’, probably. What happened to mess up ‘ordinarily’? There must be something, and it creeps at the edges of Shoot’s memory like vines climbing up a –

 _Vines_. That’s it.

As soon as Shoot remembers that detail, facts flood his head all at once…accompanied by the sudden, deafening sound of rustling leaves. Which, ‘ordinarily’ isn’t deafening, but in these circumstances….

“ _Shit_ ,” Knuckle spits.

Mentally, Shoot echoes the sentiment.

And then Knuckle is running again, and all Shoot can do is hang on. Knuckle’s gait is uneven as he trudges over thick tree roots and navigates dense underbrush, and every step jolts right into Shoot’s throbbing leg. He bites his tongue to keep quiet.

Apart from his wheezing breaths, Knuckle is silent as he flees – which, as far as Shoot recalls, is probably pointless. The creature giving chase is so large it may as well be omnipresent. Escaping is a longshot at best and impossible at worst, and he’s ever-inclined to expect the worst.

Still, Knuckle runs, cradling Shoot close like so much precious cargo. It’s almost annoying. Shoot can’t wrap his head around why.

Reorienting to Knuckle’s rhythm, Shoot squirms in his hold, ignoring the all-over flare ups of pain. He lifts himself enough to peer over Knuckle’s shoulder, and behind him he sees an infinite number of rustling leaves, accompanied by thick, vine-like plant life. Trees shudder and shake around them, only to be enveloped in the encroaching curtain of darkness.

Not a good view, all things considered.

“Knuckle,” Shoot murmurs, sinking back down into strong arms, heart pounding in his chest despite not doing any of his own running, “we need to….”

“I know!” Knuckle says.

…Which is funny, because _Shoot_ isn’t even sure how he meant to finish that sentence.

By the sound of it, though, Knuckle has managed to catch most of his breath. He takes several long sprints forward and up, bouncing off of tree trunks until he’s leaping from branch to branch. Higher ground. It’s a good idea, Shoot thinks –

– At least until Knuckle’s body jerks, and his arms slacken, and Shoot doesn’t have much time to react before he slams back to the ground. Everything explodes into pain pain _pain_ – he can’t think or even _breathe_ –

A loud cry from Knuckle is the last thing his mind registers before it fizzles out completely.

-

Wet.

There’s…something wet dripping on his face.

Shoot scrunches his brows and turns his head away to try and avoid it, but the drip proves steady, this time hitting his cheek and rolling down towards his mouth. By the corner of his lips, he tastes salt, mixing unpleasantly with the already-present iron flavor of blood.

As if triggered by the realization that he’s definitely bleeding, pain floods in, coming from so many sources that Shoot doesn’t bother to count them all.

 _‘Oh, right,’_ he remembers, ‘ _I was just thrown out of a tree.’_

Moving his head is a chore now that he has sensation back, but he manages to turn it with a groan. He squints up at whatever’s dripping on him, because that’s the easiest curiosity to satisfy right now.

Knuckle’s face blurs into existence. It’s twitching like it wants to scrunch up in anguish, and a steady stream of tears leak from watery grey eyes, landing on Shoot’s cheek.

That explains the salt, then.

But…where are they? What’s going on? They were being chased, right? But they’re stopped now? That’s not good. If they linger too long, it’ll catch up….

“Wha’s,” is all he manages when he tries to speak. His throat is dry and his tongue feels too heavy where it rests in his mouth. Clearing his throat only produces a tiny, strangled sound, and when he swallows it sticks oddly.

And then Knuckle must snap out of something, because strong arms wrap around Shoot and haul him close. Too close. _Way_ too close.

It seems Shoot still has some blood left that isn’t busy leaking out of his body, and all of it rushes to his face at once.  His face, which is currently becoming well acquainted with _Knuckle’s bare chest_ –it’s shuddering with restrained sobs, and Shoot can feel the muscles flex, can smell Knuckle’s sweat –  

“I’m sorry,” Knuckle blurts above him. “I’m so sorry, I dropped you. I didn’t mean to, but she grabbed my ankle and I –” he pauses here to sniffle wetly “– fell.”

( _She_. Of course he gave a pronoun to the plant abomination on their tail. He’s probably already named it, too.)

“S’kay.” Shoot shouldn’t have opened his mouth. Now he can _taste_ Knuckle’s sweat. His face flushes ever darker, and he brings his hand up to tap against whatever part of Knuckle he can reach. It’s all he can manage, and fortunately it gets the point across.

“Sorry – sorry!” Knuckle doesn’t sound any less frantic as he apologizes again, but when he leans down to resettle Shoot it’s with the utmost care. His arms slip out from under him, and Shoot misses their warmth even as he’s grateful to feel his blush receding.

…Although, in exchange for that, he regains full awareness of all the pain he’s in. What a day.

Above him, a few tears escape Knuckle’s eyes in rapid succession, slipping down to plop onto Shoot’s nose.

He feels like he should offer more reassurance, but Shoot can only grunt, not sure what he means by it. Being dropped wasn’t _actually_ okay, after all. His right thigh is on fire, and the rest of him is stinging at various levels of soreness. He’s pretty sure he has a concussion now that he didn’t before. Possibly an extra broken bone or two, as well. Definitely more cuts and bruises.

But Knuckle didn’t mean to.

…Though, Shoot is positive that Knuckle _also_ hadn’t meant to startle the huge, sentient plant creature (that they were only supposed to _observe_ ) into a panicked, angry rampage, either.

“S’fine,” he mumbles in the end.

What’s done is done, and Shoot _really_ isn’t in a place to argue with the only other human in what’s probably a hundred kilometer radius. Maybe more. He can’t remember exactly how big and deserted this particular patch of ancient forest is.

(Not that he even wants to argue in the first place. The warmth and breadth of Knuckle’s chest is all-too-familiar – never mind everything he’s done to keep Shoot safe so far.)

Above him, Knuckle scrubs the tears off of his face, leaving it steely and determined. There’s enough light seeping into wherever they’re hiding that Shoot can make out details, and the picture Knuckle paints isn’t the prettiest. He’s sporting a plethora of cuts and bruises, and his shirt is missing from where it had been hanging loose around his elbows before. His white pants are stained dark red and brown, and even green in places. That signature pompadour of his is frizzy and drooping.

All-in-all, though, he looks far more healthy and hale than Shoot feels. He’s sure he’s a mess – probably a black and blue and red sack of bones, at this point.

The thought gives him an uncomfortable idea relating to their chance of survival, one that makes him squirm. _Only as a last resort_ , he tells himself. _Only if things get even worse_.

To help convince himself that things _won’t_ be getting worse, Shoot presses his hand to the ground and tries to push his body up into a sitting position. Hopefully that will clear his head and get rid of the fog that clings to him.

Every muscle in him protests to the movement, of course, and he grits his teeth against the fresh onslaught of pain.

Knuckle springs to help him, and Shoot finds he doesn’t even have the energy left to conjure up another hand or two to push him away. Instead he allows himself to be gently maneuvered until he’s leaning against the wall of their hiding place.

Even that minuscule movement was enough to exhaust him, though, which…doesn’t bode well. Stars dance in front of Shoot’s eyes, and he focuses on steadying his breath and banishing them.

“Here.”

He hadn’t even realized that Knuckle had left his side, but he’s back, now, crouching next to him and offering a large leaf. Cupped in his hands as it is, there’s a small puddle of water collected in the middle. Shoot has no idea where it could have come from, and he’s half afraid that it’s actually somehow toxic – but he sucks it down when Knuckle tilts the leaf to his lips anyway.

There’s only enough for a few mouthfuls, but the effect is immediate and greatly appreciated. Cool and refreshing, the water brings his vocal chords back online as his throat finally loses the scratchy, dry edge. Shoot saves the last sip to slosh around his mouth, spitting blood off to the side.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice is still weak, but much smoother now.

“No problem.” Leaf empty, Knuckle drops it somewhere behind him and lets his arms rest on his knees.

Now that he feels the most awake he has since before the incident, Shoot takes advantage of his new vantage point to survey their hideout. The walls have a sort of roughness to them, and the ground where he sits is hard. There’s only one opening, and even then it’s just barely the right size to fit a human through. He’s thin enough, but he’s sure Knuckle had trouble squeezing his broad shoulders inside. The thought almost makes him want to smile, despite their circumstances.

“Where are we?” he asks.

Knuckle brings up a single pointer finger to scratch at his cheek, wincing when he touches a scrape and pressing his palm to it instead. “Inside a tree.”

Shoot blinks at him. “Off the ground?”

Knuckle nods the affirmative.

“…How’d we get away?”

This time, there’s a wince from Knuckle. “Uh…I slipped out of her vines, grabbed you, and ran – er, climbed, I guess.”

Well, that makes sense. Shoot has a lot more questions. Mostly to do with minor details that probably don’t matter, but he’s burning to know _how_ Knuckle got away, for instance – certain vines on that creature are awfully sharp, he knows firsthand, so how is Knuckle so unscathed?

Shoot stares at his own hand, watching his fingers tremble. They’re coated in dried blood. He can wait to ask specifics until after they’re safe.

First thing’s first: they need to get out of here. The plant may have lost interest in them, or they may have outrun it for now, but it’s proven to be persistent, so it’ll be _back_. Without outside help, the two of them aren’t liable to get far.

So they’ll have to call someone, assuming they’re close enough to society to get service. Phone companies are pretty far-reaching these days. They can probably make it within range if they try, and of course, the first person who comes to mind to call is their mentor.

“Morel-san –”

“I lost my phone,” Knuckle grumbles. A quick glance to his face confirms he’s glaring at the floor.

So Shoot tries again, watching him carefully. “Mine is –”

“Smashed,” Knuckle finishes for him. “You, uh…landed on it, when I dropped you.”

“…Oh.” Well. That puts a damper on that plan.

“Yeah.”

Shoot watches Knuckle clench his fists, and then looks away, studying his own hand again. It rests in his lap, just above the gash on his thigh – which, now that he’s looking at it, is mostly just a red splotch….

Carefully, Shoot nudges the fabric of his clothes away, revealing the still-tied tourniquet, and some new white fabric that attempts to be bandages. They’re already soaked through, but it’s covered, and Shoot suddenly remembers Knuckle’s missing shirt.

“Don’t worry,” Knuckle says, “I’ll get you out of here.”

Warmth floods Shoot’s chest, even as he winces. “I –”

And then their tree lurches forward with an ear-splitting creak, and they both slide unceremoniously towards the opening, slamming into the opposite wall.

Shoot can’t help the cry that escapes him, just as he’s sure Knuckle can’t help the litany of swears pouring out of his mouth. The tree continues to tip at an alarming rate, and the thunderous sound of rustling leaves now has them surrounded.

Through the renewed throbbing in his leg, and the way Knuckle scrambles against him, Shoot is frozen with the thought that _this definitely qualifies as a worsening of their situation_.

Head spinning from blood loss as well as hitting the ground too hard earlier, Shoot suddenly can’t catch his breath. He reaches out and clutches hold of Knuckle’s arm, even as their tree lurches down at least two meters. They can’t be far from the ground now.

“I’ll get us out,” Knuckle insists, even now. “I hit her with APR, remember? So it’s only a matter of time until she’s outta juice –!”

They don’t have _time_ , and Shoot wants to scream that at him until he understands. Doesn’t he get what’s happening here? He tightens his grip on Knuckle’s arm, hoping that it hurts.

Looks like he has to break out that last resort after all.

“Leave me…here,” Shoot forces through clenched teeth. He sucks in a few gulps of air, distancing the pain and the dizziness and his fear, trying to focus on the issue at hand. Knuckle can get away. Knuckle will be safe.

Knuckle, scrunched up against the inner wall of the tree, gawks at him. “What?”

“I said –”

“No!” Knuckle inches closer, falling on his knees. He tugs his pants up on his hips, and Shoot is reminded of constricting black leather around his thigh – Knuckle must have used his belt to slow the bleeding. Funny that he’s only realizing that now. “I won’t!”

Shoot sighs; it comes out shaky. He doesn’t want to _die_ , but if Knuckle tries to save him he’ll get them _both_ killed. “Leave me here,” he repeats, voice stronger now with his resolve. _I’m dying, anyway_ , he doesn’t say. An odd sort of calm envelopes him, steadying his words. “I’m slowing you down. You can get away.”

The tree jerks downwards again, and it’s a testament to how far up they are that vines aren’t yet creeping into their hiding place.

“I won’t,” Knuckle repeats. There are tears in his eyes, now, and Shoot wonders what kind of troublesome training partner he’s ended up with here. For one of their first missions together, this sure has gone terribly.

“Yes,” Shoot argues. “You have to.” He’s rapidly losing energy, and maybe he isn’t as calm as he’d thought. Maybe he’s just panicking so much that he can’t feel it anymore. The backs of his eyes are burning.

“Shut up!” Knuckle has to shout to be heard over the groaning of the tree and the rustling of the leaves and the new _slap_ , _slap_ of vines whipping out to urge the tree down.

“Bring back help, then,” Shoot hisses, as a final plea. Because he’s seen that level of sympathy and care in Knuckle’s eyes before. Usually it’s aimed at an injured animal marked for death, and Shoot isn’t sure he likes how it feels to be on the receiving end.

It’s the confirmation of the fact that he’ll be dead by the time Knuckle makes it back, and it doesn’t escape either of them.

Knuckle sniffles, and he’s _crying_ again, tears rolling down his face to drip off of his chin. “Shut up,” he says again, tone almost pleading.

That makes something tighten in Shoot’s chest. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to die. “You’re not being reasonable,” he squeezes out of uncooperative lungs, the wood shuddering where he’s pressed against it.

“And you’re not being fair!” Knuckle snaps. He scrubs at his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “This is my fault,” he says, “let me fix it.”

Then he leans in close, and before Shoot can protest, he’s scooped back up into Knuckle’s arms. The sudden change in position renews the screaming protests from his injuries, and he gasps with the pain, but Knuckle hoists him up all the same.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Shoot grunts. _This won’t work, this won’t work, this won’t_ work _!_

Knuckle shakes his head, holding so tight to Shoot that hanging on isn’t necessary. On shaky legs, he stands up as much as he can in the relatively tight, tilting space. He has to be standing on the wall more than the floor by now.

“ _Leave. Me._ ” Shoot puts all the energy he has left into those two words.

Again, Knuckle shakes his head. “I won’t.”

And then Knuckle raises a foot, stomping down with enough force to splinter the entryway open wide enough for them to fall through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - this took much longer than I meant it to!

The seconds of freefall have Shoot’s stomach swooping unpleasantly, and panic rising tight in his throat. He clings hard to Knuckle, all the while wondering what the hell he could be _thinking_ , sending them both to what’s definitely going to be a very horrible _death_ –

And then they vault into the air – _higher_ – for seemingly no reason, and Shoot only realizes he’s had his eyes squeezed shut when he wrenches them open.

He sees APR, in all its adorable glory, hovering a little ways in front of them. Knuckle’s foot comes down on its head, which it doesn’t seem to mind, happily chirping about interest while Knuckle uses it as a stepping stone to vault them onto a branch.

Oh.

…Somehow, that doesn’t ease the knot in Shoot’s stomach. It _worsens_ , even, as Knuckle does it _again_ between branches –

“Knuckle.” The name falls heavy and wavering from his mouth, and his fingers dig into a bare shoulder, heartrate spiking.

“Sh –”

Knuckle doesn’t quite finish the word, body wobbling in a fight for balance as he hops onto APR’s head twice more. Each time they sink down _toward_ whipping vines and rustling foliage, and Shoot very suddenly can’t feel any of his pain. He’s too distracted by the _sudden inevitability of death_ from a rampaging –

“Saving you,” Knuckle chokes out. He finds relatively solid footing on a branch for a split second, but keeps up his horrifying, high-speed jumping act.

Trees, APR, trees, APR twice again. Trees a few times.

Shoot’s stomach doesn’t stand a chance of settling at this rate. His head is spinning, his chest stuffed so full of panic it’s a wonder his heart can still beat this frantic.

 _Saving him_ , Knuckle says. Of _course_.

Closing his eyes would spare Shoot some misery. Too bad he _can’t_. They’re stuck wide open, locked on the blur of trees on the lookout for footholds even though he’s not the one doing any of the footwork.

But _again_ if he doesn’t focus on _something_ , he’ll  get caught up in how the only thing beneath them to break their potential – _inevitable_ – fall is a sea of roiling foliage that’ll _eat them_ or at least _kill them_ if they land on it, and –

Shoot’s vision starts to blacken at the edges. He forces himself to pull in breath.

Right.

Breathing would help.

Through all of his treetop running, Knuckle holds Shoot tight to his heaving chest, which is some small reassurance. He, at least, isn’t having any trouble in the breathing department; he’s hauling in oxygen at an alarming rate, even, so fast that the breaths in aren’t discernible from the breaths out.

 _Don’t fall_ , _don’t fall_ , **_don’t fall_** , Shoot wills. He wants to shout it, even though it’s a useless sentiment, because Knuckle _knows_. Of course he’s not aiming to _fall_.

…Not that Shoot could even get the words out past his clenched teeth, anyway. Every muscle in his body is locked tight, jaw included.

Which might be a blessing. The sight of the ground rushing to meet them with each step Knuckle takes on APR’s head combines with the up-and-down blur of passing scenery (and the _panic_ ) to make Shoot feel downright sick.

Shoot squeezes his arm firm around Knuckle’s shoulders, and pushes his face into his neck, trying to remember to breathe, hiding his eyes that still refuse to close –

And then Knuckle falls.

He trips, stumbling forward, and Shoot – heart in his throat – braces for a long fall and the inevitable impact of the ground – or of vicious plant –

But Knuckle’s feet scramble over bark, and Shoot is slammed into the side of a tree. His whole body is jarred rough against it, and he grunts at the flash of pain all along his side even as he’s knocked breathless.

Knuckle keeps hold of him, pinning Shoot to the tree with his weight. Forehead pressed to bark, the backs of Knuckle’s hands scrape where they cradle Shoot’s body. He’s _gasping_ for air. There’s blood trickling out from his hairline.

Knee to shoulder Shoot _aches_ , and his thigh is back to burning where it’s crushed between Knuckle and the tree. At least _that’s_ familiar by now. As is the pulse thundering in his ears. But Knuckle’s is _worse_ – Shoot can feel a hammering heartbeat through Knuckle’s skin, where he clings to broad shoulders and where he’s tucked against his chest.

They didn’t _fall_ , yeah, but –

Shoot is sure they can both still hear the rustling foliage, too close for comfort by far, yet he can’t bring himself to hurry Knuckle on.

“Hey,” he mumbles instead, voice scratching its way up his throat. Swallowing helps only a little, and he tastes what he hopes isn’t blood but probably is. “Knuckle.”

“Hnh?” Knuckle grunts. He’s shaking all over, teeth bared as he hauls in breath through their clench.

It’s undoubtedly _redundant_ , but Shoot has to ask, his fingers slipping against the sweat on Knuckle’s back in some semblance of comfort. “You okay?”

“ _Fine_.” The word is released on a heavy puff of air. Knuckle’s arms flex, squeezing Shoot in close for a second before relaxing. They’re still trembling. “M’fine.”

No, he’s absolutely _not_. Shoot _knows_ he’s not. He’s exhausted, and _hurt_ , and he’s going to _die_ all because he’s too stubborn to leave Shoot to his own _inevitable fate_. A lump is fast forming in Shoot’s throat at the thought; both because he doesn’t want to die, _and_ because he doesn’t want to be the reason that Knuckle does. He can’t. He _won’t_.

“Leave me,” he implores again, “please.”

Knuckle shakes his head as Shoot speaks, wincing when it grinds his wounded forehead into bark. “Stop sayin’ that.”

“I’m too heavy.” Shoot squirms to prove his point and pretty much ruins his argument by flinching at the movement and letting out a weak grunt. Yeah. He definitely has some broken bones.

“You’re not.” Knuckle’s head tips lower, until the top of it is leaning on the tree instead.  He hefts his shaky arms higher, tucking Shoot closer and away from the press of wood. “You’re fine. I just need….” Tapering off to breathe, his eyes fall closed, and it’s beyond obvious what he needs.

Shoot swallows again, and that sure is blood he tastes. “We’re far enough ahead.” They’re not. Shoot can still hear the sound of whipping vines over Knuckle’s wheezing breaths. “I’ll be fine here until you come back with hel –”

“ _Shut up!_ ”

Eyes wide, Shoot stares at Knuckle’s grimacing face.

“I won’t leave you,” Knuckle mumbles. “I promised I’d get you out of here,” he opens his eyes, standing up straight and lifting Shoot the rest of the way away from the tree, “so I am.”

Before Shoot can offer more protest, Knuckle is off. His uneven, teetering gait over APR and treetops alike is somehow _faster_ than before.

It’s also as rough as it gets, and Shoot is painfully aware of his own weight dragging them both down.

Still, he clings to Knuckle’s shoulders and _hopes_. What else can he do? He’s not in any position to offer real help. He can’t run on his own.

…And Knuckle….

Knuckle is slowing down.

It’s gradual, _sure_ , but locked in his arms and hyper-aware of approaching danger as Shoot is he can tell.

The leaves, the vines, and the all-encompassing darkness loom closer by the second, spreading below them and behind them alike. Either Knuckle has been slowly drifting downward with each step, or the plant creature has been hauling herself _up_. Neither of which bodes well.

“ _Almost_ ,” Knuckle pants, springing off of APR’s head and onto a branch, “ _there_.”

Shoot wrenches his eyes away from the danger around them for a quick glance ahead. Sure enough, the trees are thinning, sunlight and blue sky poking through in more and more places.

Ah. Now Knuckle’s downward path makes sense. They should get at least a _little_ closer to the ground before the trees disappear completely if they don’t want the dismount to kill them. That would be a spectacular waste of a perfectly horrifying escape.

Unfortunately, this descent puts them well within harm’s reach at the peak of Knuckle’s exhaustion.

Shoot’s holding his breath again.

They’re _close._ They could make it out _without_ (additional) _damage_ – they’re _almost_ at the _tree line_ – Knuckle’s hit a clear stride of branches with no need for APR’s help, even –

A sound like a thick whip cracking comes from behind, and something green blurs too close to Shoot’s face.

Knuckle’s body jerks to a rough halt midair. He gives a stifled, choked-off noise as the both of them are hauled backwards until they’re stopped dead with a heavy _slam!_ that jars Shoot to the core. All of his senses black out for a moment – even with Knuckle as a buffer.

 _It must be so much worse for Knuckle_ , is the first thought through Shoot’s jumbled mind. Muscled arms go too-tight around Shoot and he flails in their hold, hand scrabbling at Knuckle’s shoulder only to meet the texture of a thick, rough vine instead of smooth skin.

Shoot’s hearing comes back first, the deafening ring replaced with the horrible sound of Knuckle struggling for breath, and that startles his vision back to functional.

So he _looks_ , and –

The vine that he felt is wrapped firm around Knuckle’s throat, _tightening_.

He’s being _pulled_ by the neck, and it’s only thanks to a wide fortunately-placed branch that he stopped at all – Knuckle’s back is bent along it, his feet scraping over it for purchase, his arms squeezing Shoot ever-closer –

Shoot doesn’t even _think_.

His body moves on automatic. He lets go of Knuckle, activating Hotel Rafflesia and closing a fist around the vine, grabbing at it, sealing a chunk of it away and successfully snapping its hold on Knuckle.

The vine goes slack and slides away from Knuckle’s neck, and he sucks in air – even as he and Shoot are _falling_ in _earnest_ –

But when they hit the ground Knuckle _keeps running_. His stumbling feet and labored breaths ferry them both out of the woods, and he doesn’t trip until they’re clear of the trees.

Problem is they’re still _too close_.

Shoot can see the vines. The dense, shuffling leaves.

“Knuckle,” he urges, fingernails digging in. He considers spilling himself out of Knuckle’s lap and hauling the other to safety this time – but those arms hold fast to him. It would take too long to get loose. Never mind that Shoot is thoroughly winded just from _fear_. “ _Knuckle!_ We have to –!”

“I know!” Knuckle snaps, over the backdrop of fast-approaching plant-creature. His voice is even rougher than usual. “I got you.”

Two tries. It takes _two tries_ for Knuckle to get his feet under him.

The first time, one of his legs buckles and sends him crumpling back to the ground, the second time he makes it a single step before tripping – but then he’s up and running again, this time over tall grass dried by a too-brilliant sun that blinds Shoot in a stark contrast to the dark of the forest.

Looking over Knuckle’s shoulder as he runs, Shoot spots desperate vines whipping out between tree trunks, making them shake and shudder. They’re close enough that he can feel their _breeze_ – but they’re growing distant all the while, even with Knuckle’s drastically slowing pace.

Still Knuckle doesn’t come to a full stop until he’s gotten them well clear of even the _shade_ of the trees. Only then does he collapse, toppling back to sit heavy on the dusty ground.

They made it.

Whatever that plant is, she doesn’t seem to like such direct sunlight. She’s still lingering at the edge of the forest, vines snagging on trees.

They _made_ _it_.

Shoot could cry, overwhelming relief nudging panic out of his chest.

Meanwhile, he’s pretty sure that Knuckle _is_ crying. At any rate his cheeks are suspiciously wet as he bows his head over Shoot and mutters, “We’re safe.”

“…Thank you.” The whisper falls shaky and automatic out of Shoot’s mouth, and he’s glad he got it out before he gathered himself enough to feel awkward. Because he _means_ it. That tight coil that’s been an uncomfortable weight in Shoot’s chest since everything went wrong is loosening at last.

Sniffling, Knuckle shakes his head. He’s still trembling all over and obviously weak with exertion, yet he has the gall to say: “S’nothing.”

 _Nothing_. Yeah, sure.

“You saved me,” Shoot blurts. He can’t look away from Knuckle, from his flushed face shiny with sweat, from the trickle of blood down the center of it. “Us, I mean.”

Strong arms shake as they lower Shoot to lie on the ground between Knuckle’s stretched-out legs. Like this, Shoot’s own legs are braced over Knuckle’s thigh, and his back is supported by the opposite knee.

For a moment Knuckle is quiet, until he insists, “You saved me, too,” for reasons Shoot can’t fathom.

Mainly because: “I _panicked_.”

“Maybe,” Knuckle shrugs one shoulder, his gray eyes searching Shoot’s face, “but if ya hadn’t that thing would’ve snapped my neck.”

Shoot flinches, fighting off the gruesome mental image. As it is Knuckle sounds like he’s struggling to _speak_ , a thick red welt around his neck. It doesn’t matter that Shoot stopped it; he was _too slow_.

“So tha –”

“Don’t thank me.” Shoot can’t accept anything like thanks from Knuckle. Given the circumstances it would be downright unfair.

A puff of air leaves Knuckle on a short sigh, but that’s as close as he comes to continuing the conversation.

Thank goodness. Shoot doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Knuckle had insisted on praising him for no reason. He’s already effectively _sitting in Knuckle’s lap_ – if he weren’t so tired and sore right now he’d be scrambling out of it via pure embarrassment.

Adrenaline is draining fast from his system, though, and pain is rushing in to replace it, so that’s at least a distraction. Shoot’s leg throbs so badly that he’s afraid he’ll pass out from the feeling alone, never mind the blood loss.

…Actually, he’s surprised he hasn’t already passed out, now he thinks of it.

Oh well.

Since he’s conscious and searching for a way not to focus on the feeling of Knuckle supporting him, he uses the pain to tally off injuries again, taking stock. Broken ribs, countless bruises, scraped up shoulder, throbbing head, bloody mouth, arm sore from clutching at Knuckle. Chest sore from panic….

And he’s dizzy. That’d be because of the blood soaking his entire bottom half, he figures. He has to be close to bleeding out, here. He won’t last much longer. They aren’t out of _danger_ , yet.

As for Knuckle….

Those strong shoulders have redoubled their shaking, hitched with what must be relieved sobs on top of their exhaustion as his broad chest shudders with raspy breaths.

Shoot makes a conscious effort to ease up on his hold, wincing at the sight of bloody crescents left behind when he removes his fingernails.

His mouth forms an apology for that, but it barely comes out and he isn’t sure if Knuckle hears.

It’s alright, maybe. Those are hardly the worst of Knuckle’s injuries. There’s that reddening welt on his neck that’s purpling its way to a bruise, splinters all over his shoulders, a gash on his forehead, torn and bloody knuckles. And his _leg_ –

Wait a second. That wasn’t…like that before.

Knuckle’s pants leg is hiked up a bit, revealing skin at his ankle that’s flushed an alarming shade. A cold spike lances through Shoot’s stomach, turning to a ball of ice there. This can’t be good.

Finagling his arm from around Knuckle’s sweaty shoulders, Shoot reaches for his knee instead. He tugs those pants up and away from whatever they’re hiding, releases a shaky breath at what he sees.

An oozing brush burn is scraped into Knuckle’s shin all the way to his knee, which looks _wrong_. Shoot pulls at the pants to get a better look, not at all reassured by what he sees. That kneecap isn’t where it should be at all. The whole area is an angry, swollen red.

And below _that_ Knuckle’s ankle looks just as bad – another twisted mess, puffy and sore.

Shoot swallows, but the lump in his throat is there to stay. His own leg is throbbing in empathy at the sight. Heartrate picking right back up again. _Shit_.

When did all of that _happen_? How long has –?

“Just…gimme a minute,” Knuckle huffs, still winded, “then I’ll carry you to th’ next town over to get help….”

“ _No_.”

“…Hah?”

Knuckle is staring at him, and Shoot doesn’t blame him. That came out maybe a little more forceful than he’d intended, after all. But he means it – he _can’t_ let Knuckle do that. He tightens his fist in that stained pants leg, keeping the fabric well away from all injuries.

“Your _leg_ ….”

Face going a shade paler, Knuckle finally seems to realize that Shoot’s caught him. Jerking his leg away from Shoot’s hand has him hissing in pain, flinching heavily. It doesn’t stop him from forcing a, “S’not that bad,” through his teeth.

Too late. Shoot’s _seen_ it. “You’re not running anywhere on that,” he says, voice trembling no matter how steady he fights to keep it. His eyes are burning again, his throat sore even though he wasn’t the one choked. No _wonder_ Knuckle had so much trouble. “You shouldn’t have been in the first place.”

Clearly exhausted, a lopsided grin flashes across Knuckle’s face all the same. One weak, dirtied hand comes up to tuck some of Shoot’s equally dirtied hair behind his ear –  

– And that’s all it takes for Shoot to have to scrub away a few tears. _Dammit_.

“Don’t cry,” Knuckle mumbles, even though _he’s_ not any better off in that regard. He _never_ is. He looks ready to pass out at any second, face wetter than Shoot’s. “I had to get ya outta there.”

Again, Shoot wants to scream at him. Tell him off. But he knows it won’t do any good – Knuckle won’t be berated out of saving a life, after all, and Shoot doesn’t have the energy for an argument. “You’re not carrying me any farther,” he forces out past his quivering jaw.

That watery smile droops a bit, Knuckle shifting his good leg behind Shoot’s back, in preparation for _standing_. “It can’t be that far.”

“ _No_.” Shoot leans all his weight back, pinning Knuckle’s leg and ignoring the grind of snapped ribs in his own chest.

Knuckle huffs at him. “What, then?” he grouches, and Shoot doesn’t have an answer for him – which is just as well, because he plows right on anyway. “Should we just sit around and wait for someone to find –”

“ _There_ you two are.”

Shoot’s whole body jolts in surprise, and beneath him he feels Knuckle’s do the same as both of them crane their necks to follow the sound of that voice.

A portal has opened to their left, and Knov’s head is poking out, looking them over with what might be relief.

At the sight of him, Shoot’s anxiety falls from an eleven to a six out of ten. Knuckle goes boneless, too, heaving the heaviest, most relieved sigh that Shoot’s ever heard out of him.

“Your phones were out of service,” Knov explains, climbing out of his portal and brushing his suit down with careful hands. “Morel had me set up exits in and around the forest just in case before you two left, and he sent me to check on you. Looks like it’s a good thing he did.”

The embarrassment of being seen cradled in Knuckle’s lap and the fear that Morel doesn’t trust them both pale in comparison to the sheer _gratitude_ that saps Shoot of the rest of his stressed, stubborn strength. He leans on Knuckle’s leg, heart finally settling.

Knov is closer, now, crouching so as to better take in their battered state. “I take it things didn’t go as planned?”

A laugh falls out of Knuckle’s mouth at that, halfway delirious. “No,” he says, and it sounds forced, “no they didn’t.”

“Well,” Shoot isn’t sure what goads him into speaking, but he’s afraid it might have something to do with some desire to banish the dejected undertone in Knuckle’s voice, “we did get a pretty close look at it.”

This time when Knuckle laughs it’s more genuine, if not any less worn – and as he does he wraps his arms around Shoot, pulling him in close for a _hug_ with an enthusiastic, “Yeah!”

Any attempt that Shoot made not to be mortified by Knov seeing him in Knuckle’s arms is thwarted immediately, a hot flush overtaking his face at the action. “Pluh – plus,” he stutters, in a pathetic attempt to save face, “there, um, there should be a piece of vine in Hotel Rafflesia that we can.” (Knuckle is _laughing_ again, which _does not help_.) “Analyze.”

“Mission successful after all!” Knuckle cheers.

With Knuckle squeezing him so close that he can taste his sweat again, Shoot begs to differ. Especially with Knov raising a suspicious eyebrow at them, a telltale sort of grin on his face.

…At least. At least they’re alive.

Even _if_ Shoot’s about ready to die of mortification before even the blood loss can claim him. In fact, he must be pretty good on blood, considering the amount he can feel rushing to his face to heat it up even more. Great. Fantastic.

Knuckle still won’t let him go. He’s…he’s crying into Shoot’s hair, just a little. There’s a growing wet patch, and he sniffles, and Shoot is close to joining him.

It’s Knov that rescues him this time, strolling over and pressing a hand atop Knuckle’s head to get his attention. Those strong arms loosen around Shoot as Knuckle tips his face up to look at Knov, and it’s much easier for Shoot to breathe now. _Thank goodness_.

“You did fine,” Knov assures. “Now let's get you two home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I still love these two so much,
> 
> Thanks for the interest in more, and thanks for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but during editing I came up with an idea for an actual ending. So I miiight end up tacking that on as another chapter when it's finished? Um. We'll see.
> 
> In unrelated news: tomorrow marks the ten year anniversary of the first fic I ever posted online anywhere. Time flies, man.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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